Atrophy

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

It had happened once before. It was back when she was known as Joy, or rather, the first time she was known as Joy, a nickname created once to tease her for her hard, stoic nature by her peers. She was much younger then, but also much quicker in both her ability to neutralize a threat and to suck the mirth out of the atmosphere. She was famous then, too, in the way people are famous for stories that have been exaggerated and warped so much that they are more like fairy tales than reality. In the tales she was a beautiful swordswoman who would only find love and marry when a man was able to best her with his blade. In reality she was already wearing the hard, glum face that only grew more severe with age, and the only thing she was married to was her duty as a Kingsguard and to her country.

In that way, it could be said that she was the most devout wife. She never complained when she grew tired, she never wavered in carrying out her responsibilities, and she went out of her way to make sure that her charges would be able to protect themselves when she was not present. Most importantly, she did not ask questions, even when the orders given to her were questionable. Maybe if she raised her voice in disagreement when her King started his ill-fated march to the West, using the knowledge she had gained from devouring stratagems and military histories to point out the flaws in his plan, then perhaps things would have been different. Knowing Olain, however, she doubted he would listen. She doesn’t blame herself for not speaking up.

She blamed herself for not being there in time.

She could see her Queen, now, out of reach, beyond a sea of enemies. She could feel the weight on her body as it grew more and more tired with every swing, slash, and parry as she carved herself a path through crowd, the H’kelan sun beating down on her brow. It seemed almost hopeless; with every soldier she fell, another seemed to take his place. She kept pushing, pushing, pushing forward, men and women falling, falling, falling around her like autumn leaves. It didn’t matter that she was tired. It didn’t matter that her body ached. It didn’t matter that she was out of breath. She couldn’t let this happen again. She couldn’t fail again. She had to reach her. She had to reach her. She had to reach—

—Olain. The sun was gone, now, as was the H’kelan heat and the dry, oppressive air, replaced instead by an eternal darkness and a torrential downpour of rain that turned the ground into mud. She was in the West again, some fifteen years ago, and she could see herself fighting. She was fiercer back then, brutal even, perhaps second only to the Direwolf who was left back East. However, despite her fervor she was losing. They hadn’t anticipated the Gifted to put up such a strong resistance so soon after their battle with the God Kings, and they were paying for that. She had fought plenty of men before, but this had been like fighting monsters. It was beyond her abilities, and she knew it.

But she couldn’t run, because her King needed her. She could see him in the distance, squaring off with the Void Lord himself, outmatched and out of her reach. She kept throwing herself against the other bodies, not carrying of whom her sword ran through as long as it meant she got closer to Olain. She had to reach him. She had to protect him. It was her duty. It was her everything. She saw the Void Lord raise his hand, could feel the energy crackle in the air. She wouldn’t make it in time. She failed, she failed, she failed. She felt her legs buckle, the exhaustion of battle finally overcoming her, and she collapsed to her knees, waiting and watching through the swarm of soldiers around her for the end. The hand went down, and—

—She was back in H’kela. Again, on her knees. Again, defeated. Again, failing in her duties. She watched, petrified, through misty gray eyes as the amalgamation formed itself into being. Once more she was met with an opponent that she had no hope of reaching, let alone even being capable of defeating. Her head fell as the creation lunged at the Queen. She didn’t need to watch to know what happened next. The screams, the crunch, the laughter of a mad man, all of it painted a picture well enough. She felt the will to fight escape her body as she folded into herself, not caring if she was to be trampled, cutdown, or devoured. She heard the continued yelling, screaming, could hear the people around her try and put up a fight. Why were they bothering? It was over.

Through the corner of her eyes, she could see the red glow. Lifting her head—

—She saw a red explosion turn the night sky into day from where Olain had been fighting the Void Lord. Forcing herself up to her feet, she saw Olain collapse to the ground, gravely wounded, as company of his guards rushed to flank him and form a barrier between him and the Void Lord. The Void Lord did not fall back, but the guards were quick enough to pull Olain onto a horse and retreat him from the frontline. The rest of the Barcean forces followed, all except her. The rebels pulled back, having successfully defended their homelands, and she was left alone in an ocean of death, drowning. She had failed to save him, and although he wasn’t yet dead, she already knew that she would not be spared. Back then, things were harsher. And back then, she still wanted to live.

So she ran.

Some things never—

—Change. She forced herself up to her feet, slashing at the soldier that was prepared to deliver the coup de grace on the fallen woman and smashing another into the ground with her scabbard. The Guratans had broken through and given them a way out, and she was determined to make it out with them. Yes, she had failed. Yes, they had been defeated. Yes, the Queen was dead, and the pain that brought would perhaps never heal. But she had lived and she would run because she wanted to keep on living, because if she lived then she could fight another day. So, despite the darkness and despair that she now felt, she knew that someday she’d make it right, and even as she ran with tears running freely down her cheeks, she couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth in her chest. Because, in the time that she had been Vesta, she had learned that even in the darkest of moments, hidden underneath the sadness and death and destruction, was Joy.

And she would never, ever desert them again.

Joy

Joy had busied herself ever since they had arrived at the camp. She knew her vices well enough that if she took the time to mourn Kori that inevitably she would start blaming herself for her death, and would find solace for her guilt in the bottom of a bottle of rye. That was the old woman, the crippled woman, who did that. She had to be better than that person, or any of the other people she had been in her life before, if she wanted things to come out right. And she really, truly, wanted to make things right. So she began organizing the injured, assigning healers here and there while Diane took care of Ayano, and then proceeded to deal with the quartermasters, finding where they were on supplies and how many they needed.

But as she worked herself to exhaustion, rushing to and fro amongst the Sentinels and the Guratans, acting as a mix between a messenger and a general, there was one thing that she knew she had to deal with. Or rather, one person: Cyril. The person running around, organizing the troops, giving relief where they could, should be him, not her. She was just a swordswoman, a great swordswoman, but a swordswoman all the same. She had never been a good leader, and she accepted that, but she had been a decent mentor.The Direwolf sure as hell hadn’t taught Cyril how to fight, or the poor Prince would’ve been covered in head to toe with scars.

Yet she knew that, if anyone did, then he deserved the time to grieve. It wasn’t a weakness, not as long as he did begin blaming himself for the death of his sister, and she had also been vigilant in her efforts of pushing away anybody that had tried to bother Cyril in his time of mourning. However, as unfortunate as it was, she knew that time was the last thing any of them had. Gartian and the Advisor would use this opportunity to strike at them when they seemed the weakest. She had to make sure that when they struck, they struck against unbreakable iron and steel, but to do that the allied forces needed a leader.

They needed their King.

Carvings of the Galaxy

---

Owen Childs

---

After changing, Owen found himself drawn to the infirmary. He wasn’t completely aware of his true intentions as his polished shoes clacked down the hallway and paused in front of the doorway. Was he looking for Benji in hopes of catching the doctor alone to give him a piece of his mind? Unlikely. He didn’t want to open up that can of worms now, knowing himself well enough that he’d start flinging accusations at the skittish doctor that would be more harmful for the man’s already fragile psyche. Tahlia, then? No, he didn’t even want to be in the same room as her. Not now, at least. Maybe he was hoping to find Yaz? After his talk with Echo, he was quickly becoming convinced that she might be the only other person on board that classified as whatever his definition of normal meant, if being normal was even possible. But what would they even talk about?

When the door slid open with a soft whoosh and a weight came off of Owen’s shoulders when he saw Rend, strapped down but breathing (thanks to the very kind of machines the man seemed to hate), he knew why he had come. He had wanted to make sure that the man was still alive, that in his absence Doc or Tahlia hadn’t done something horrible. Although, would it be horrible to silently end the old man’s life? After all, he had cheated his way onto the ship, he had acted irrationally, he had pulled the gun, he had intended to hurt or even kill Tahlia. What did he add to the crew except danger and uncertainty? What would he offer to a new world? What value did he—Owen shook his head. He didn’t have the right to assign value to a person; that was something Rend would do. He stood over Rend now, his arms folded over his chest as his eyes studied the catatonic man.

Something a leader would do, he thought with a thin smirk on his face, his mind drifting back to his conversation with Echo. Probably why this jerk pulled a gun. He knew right away how worthless it is to put any effort in this stupid charade.

“It’s going to come up sooner or later,” he said, looking the ventilator up and down. “Of what we should do with you, I mean. Obviously, we can’t just let bygones be bygones. We aren’t idiots. I like to think that we aren’t idiots. We could just lock you up somewhere. Give you three hots and a cot until you croak from old age. Although, knowing you, you’d probably live to be a hundred or something. The mean ones always do. We’d probably run out of food by then.”

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his glasses bobbing up and down as he did so. “We could freeze you again.”

Could they? From his talks with Echo, it sounded like the freezing process was more dangerous than any of them had been told. Likewise, didn’t it require some kind of micro-bio-whatever pills to work? And assuming they even had those lying around (which he doubted), why shouldn’t they just let the computer run its course and the five of them, minus Rend, jump back in the ice lockers? Because then we’d still be killing you, even if it was just by negligence.

He looked at the ventilator again. How easy it would be to just unplug it. Wasn’t leadership doing the things that nobody else wanted to do, but that had to be done? He eyed the machine,not knowing what to look for but knowing that if he pulled and pushed enough things on it that eventually it’d stop working. Nobody would have to worry about these decisions. He stepped around the bed to get a closer look at the machine. Nobody would know. He reached out and placed his hand on top of it, only to pull away as if he had been burned. He could never do that. He’d know. That’s all that mattered.

“I should just learn to keep my mouth shut, he said, turning away from the old man.

He had made it to the doorway when Tahlia’s voice came to life over the intercom and informed them all of their possible end. He felt his heart sink into his stomach as he chuckled to himself, realizing that he had been right all along when he had half-joked about some kind of space junk smashing them into oblivion. So mankind would be doomed after all despite their efforts. Well, of course that’s how it would be. Of course. A random, pointless end to a random, pointless footnote in the annuals of life. Fitting that he’d die in a room with somebody he hated, on a ship with four other people who were still virtually strangers. You got a messed up sense of humor, big guy, he thought as he leaned against the wall, ready for some big-budget impact to completely obliterate him in a slow, fiery explosion over a score written in the minor key played.

None of that happened. A slight shift, a twist in his stomach, a pop in his ear, and then Tahlia’s voice came back over the intercom. Owen let go of a breath he hadn’t realized that he had been holding as a wave of relief overcame him. His first thought was that it had all been some cruel, sick joke by Tahlia, but he knew that was impossible. First of all, he had felt something—the bizarre discomfort wasn’t only something he had whipped up with his imagination. Secondly, he knew that Tahlia wasn’t the kind to play practical jokes. He jammed his finger on the button to the door and pushed out of it, almost running, as he made his way to the cockpit.

“Tahlia, what’s happening?” he demanded as he walked into the room. Yaz and Echo were there; Benji was not. He frowned. As bizarre of an idea that it was, he couldn't shake the feeling that whenever Benji wasn’t around things often went from bad to worse. “And where’s Doc?”

Carvings of the Galaxy

@TheMadAsshatterShould I wait for your post then? I've got one in the chamber.

Beyond the Storms

@SkepicI'm a bit tied up at the moment so feel free to go ahead.

Carvings of the Galaxy

Won't be getting a post up until the weekend because I'm terrible.

Beyond the Storms

Main Deck --> Aircraft Hangar

Her smile wavered but did not break as the reporter corrected her, and she was about to explain to him that even if it already did have a name a new one that evoked a sense of ownership was better than a bland, neutral one created by UINC when a voice cracked over the PA system. Once again she found herself jumping at the unseen voice, it reminding her so much of the emotionless, disembodied foremen that signalled the beginning and the end of their mandated lunch breaks back in her warehouse days. Edward was already beating feet towards the hangar by the time she parsed the message, the old feelings of dread invoked by memories of factories quickly smothered by the exciting realization that she’d be taking a flight in the VTOL earlier than she anticipated (and with a significantly less amount of pleading).

She chased after Edward, slightly annoyed that he had left her behind and with full intention of beating him aboard the plane regardless. Although she was no longer dripping wet thanks to the sun starting to dry her, she did find herself still somewhat exhausted from the earlier storm and dropped further and further behind in the race that only she knew she was in. She caught up to Edward by the time a scarred man called Krauss introduced himself as the pilot of the blue, bizarre aircraft behind him. His name was vaguely familiar, although she tended to pretend that all names were vaguely familiar to her, as if her social circles spread so far and wide that it encompassed the entirety of the Isles and that none of its citizens couldn’t be a friend of a friend. Her eyes narrowed onto his outstretched hand like a hawk as she slowed her pace into a cool, confident stroll. Despite knowing that the handshake was intended for Edward, she seized it greedily with both hands as she sided past the reporter.

“It’s truly wonderful to finally meet you, Krauss. That was you flying earlier today? It was an absolutely fantastic display, I must say. Truly marvelous,” she said, not letting go of his hand. “I’m Constance Holloway.” She paused, as if to let the gravity of her name sink in. “I have a handful of crashes under my belt as well,” she added with a smile, finally forfeiting his hand. It was unclear, but it almost seemed as if she was actually bragging about crashing instead of attempting to be playful.

She brushed past Krauss and began to make a loop around the plane, as if she was performing her own safety inspection. However, despite owning aviation companies and taking flight lessons, let alone being involved in manufacturing airplane parts in her youth, Constance knew very little about airplanes. The times she had flown were with a copilot, whose job was to get the bird off of the ground and to make sure that she was ejected with a parachute when she inevitably tried a maneuver that was not only beyond her skill level but absolutely impossible to pull off in the first place. Her companies had been run by actual people in the know, she had just thrown money at them. And tightening bolts as a hunk of metal came down a conveyor belt taught her nothing except for how she could hardly deal with tedium. Yet, she still made approving nods and noises as she circled the VTOL.

“Not bad, not bad. A few questionable aesthetic choices, if anything, but she seems solid enough,” she said as she made her way around, a hint of eagerness seeping into her voice as she poked her head inside of the interior. She looked back at the two with a grin and then hopped inside, determined to take the seat with the clearest view. The craft was small, maybe able to fit three or four with some shoulder rubbing. She took what she assumed to be the co-pilot seat, the meters and buttons of the control panel begging to be fiddled with, and plopped herself down in the chair. Excitement flooded through her body as she twisted around in the seat and climbed over the headrest, allowing for her to peek out through the doorway at Edward and Krauss.

“What’s the hold up, lads? If you two bum around any longer, I might just take this baby for a joyride,” she said, her head disappearing back into the plane.

Beyond the Storms

Eating yogurt and making coffee alone because somebody picked up all of the hipster chicks.

_{Also working on a post. Should have it up tomorrow.}

Beyond the Storms

I think it'd be a cool idea to get some new blood aboard.

Beyond the Storms

@LexiconAw man, that stinks! Good job on the promotion though, boss.

The Origin: A War Resumed (Arc One; Completed)

@The Darklight Project

I read the post

I...I don't trust you anymore, and I think that somehow makes me like you more. I don't know what that necessarily says about me, but good job jerk. Hit me up with a PM whenever so we can start axing the rest of the cast the next transition to a much happier place.